Honkai Star Rail: Summoning the Chrysos Heirs — Chapter 72

Chapter 72: Cloth Artisan

The streak of scarlet light lunged for his brow. Phainon did not even blink.

Muscle memory outpaced conscious thought. His toes shattered the floor tiles, the explosive force launching him violently backward. Simultaneously, he flipped his right wrist. Golden light particles coalesced in his palm, instantly forging the Morning Invader. He brought the broad spine of the blade up, positioning it perfectly before his forehead.

The anticipated shriek of colliding metal never came.

Instead, a faint hum sliced through the deathly silent basement, vibrating like a violently taut violin string. Phainon lowered his guard slightly, his gaze shifting past the edge of his blade.

The twisted ritual sword hung suspended in mid-air, frozen less than half an inch from the Morning Invader. Countless Golden Threads, as fine as human hair, coiled tightly around its hilt and blade. The threads bit deeply into the dark metal, refracting a cold, merciless luster under the dim basement lighting. The ritual sword vibrated violently, emitting a desperate, unwilling buzz. It thrashed like a wild beast caught in a spider’s web, struggling to tear free from its gorgeous cage, yet it remained entirely immobilized.

This absolute method of control. These iconic Golden Threads.

The cold vigilance in Phainon’s eyes melted away, replaced by a flicker of genuine astonishment. “Aglaea?”

He scanned the shadows, searching for her silhouette. In this world, only one existence wielded threads with such divine mastery, possessing an aesthetic and power so uniquely her own.

“A commendable reaction. It seems you have not allowed your basic skills to dull during this time.”

An elegant, composed voice drifted leisurely from the broken entrance of the basement.

Phainon turned toward the sound. Drifting through the shattered doorway was a figure that radiated an eerie, almost haunting beauty. It was not a living body. Two delicate wooden sticks crossed in a rigid X, forming a crude spine and shoulder blades reminiscent of a clothes hanger. Draped elegantly over this wooden frame was a magnificent golden dress. The lower half was entirely empty, the hem of the gown hovering half a foot above the bloodstained floor.

The Cloth Artisan.

This was Aglaea’s favored puppet, a direct extension of her sovereign will.

“Although my main body remains outside, weaving the Golden Threads to manage the aftermath, there are certain loose ends that require the Cloth Artisan’s personal touch.” The puppet shifted slightly, angling its wooden frame toward Phainon. It possessed no facial features, yet Phainon could acutely feel the weight of a scrutinizing gaze pinning him in place.

Aglaea’s voice echoed from the empty dress, carrying a distinct note of aristocratic amusement. “Besides, I heard from little Cyrene that you harbor a certain resistance to… interacting with others?”

Phainon’s fingers locked rigidly around his hilt. He raised his free hand in a rare display of awkwardness, scratching his cheek with his index finger as his gaze darted to the side.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it resistance…” He offered a dry, hollow laugh, attempting to salvage his dignity. “It is merely a consequence of my past experiences. I have gone too long without speaking to strangers. I am simply out of practice.”

“Out of practice?” The Cloth Artisan hovered higher, its empty sleeves rising to mimic a crossed-arm gesture. “I understand. It appears the psychological decay left by your endless cycles of reincarnation is far more severe than I anticipated.”

Aglaea’s tone remained deceptively gentle. “But forgetting basic etiquette is a terrible habit. As your teacher, it seems I am obligated to start from the very beginning and teach you all over again.”

Those final words struck Phainon like a physical blow. His expression froze completely. Deeply buried fragments of his Remembrance surged to the forefront of his mind, bringing a wave of instinctual dread.

“Teacher Aglaea, the previous era was a unique circumstance. I truly do not believe there is any need for such measures this time…”

The words died in his throat.

A freezing strand of Golden Thread had silently slithered around his wrist. It tightened with terrifying precision, biting into his flesh and sending a sharp, warning tingle straight to his nerves.

It was an ultimatum.

Phainon shuddered. His survival instincts screamed in absolute overdrive. He snapped to attention, his posture ramrod straight, and projected his voice with desperate clarity.

“I will learn! I will absolutely learn! You are entirely correct, Teacher, I am in desperate need of a thorough review!”

The brutal constriction vanished instantly. The lethal thread softened into silk, gently patting the back of his hand twice in the manner of a mother praising an obedient child. Phainon released a breath so shallow it barely moved his chest, subtly reaching up to wipe a phantom drop of cold sweat from his brow.

Satisfied with his absolute submission, the suffocating pressure radiating from the Cloth Artisan evaporated into the damp air.

“Good boy.” Aglaea chuckled, a light, airy sound. She manipulated the threads, floating the restrained ritual sword directly into Phainon’s waiting hand. “Hold onto this little trinket for now. I sense a highly unpleasant, twisted power clinging to its core. While it poses no genuine threat to you, its structural composition is fascinating. It may be worth dissecting later.”

The golden bindings dissolved into glowing motes of light, scattering into the shadows.

The instant the restraint vanished, the ritual sword shrieked. It possessed a crude, vicious sentience. Refusing to fall, it ignited into a blinding streak of crimson light, launching itself directly at Phainon’s skull with murderous intent.

Phainon’s expression remained entirely deadpan. He simply raised his empty hand just as the rusted tip threatened to pierce his skin.

A sharp, metallic crack echoed through the room.

The aggressive blade was caught dead in its tracks, clamped immovably within Phainon’s bare palm. The explosive kinetic energy of the thrust washed over him, yet it failed to even shift the fabric of his sleeve.

He stared blankly at the metal vibrating frantically against his skin, struggling to tear free. He slowly closed his five fingers.

A sickening crunch of warping steel filled the silence.

The ritual sword let out a pathetic whine. The malevolent red glow died instantly, leaving the weapon completely inert and obedient.

“Since Teacher requested it, I will hold onto it for future study.” Phainon casually ripped a strip of fabric from a nearby piece of debris, bound the ruined blade tightly, and shoved it into his coat pocket as if it were mere scrap metal. “The research can wait. We still have a mess to clean up.”

He turned his attention toward the dark corner of the room.

The Middle-aged Man and his two surviving operatives were slumped against the wall, watching the entire exchange in absolute, paralyzed awe. From witnessing Phainon execute the bishop with a single strike, to the arrival of the haunting golden puppet, and finally the bizarre, terrifying dynamic between this godlike swordsman and his unseen teacher—it was entirely too surreal to process.

The Middle-aged Man simply stared, his jaw slack, entirely forgetting the blood still pouring from his lacerations.

Phainon approached the battered survivors. His aura shifted, returning to that characteristic, gentle calm. “The immediate area is secure. All hostile threats have been neutralized.”

His gaze swept over their catastrophic injuries, pausing briefly on the pooling blood. “You have sustained severe trauma. This environment is highly toxic for prolonged exposure. Evacuate and seek medical attention immediately.”

He offered no further comfort. With a brief gesture to the Cloth Artisan, he turned toward the deepest, suffocating depths of the basement. The true source of the disaster still festered in the dark, waiting to be excised.

“Wait… Your Excellency!”

The Middle-aged Man snapped out of his shock. Ignoring the agonizing tearing of his wounds, he forced himself upright, his voice ragged with desperate anxiety. “I have a subordinate… her name is Diting! She was dragged down here. Do you have any…”

A level, aristocratic voice cut through his panic.

“I am aware of your objective.” It was not Phainon who spoke, but the empty golden dress floating behind him. Aglaea’s tone was absolute, leaving no room for doubt. “However, the girl you seek was never brought to this location.”

The man froze, his outstretched hand trembling in the damp air.

The Cloth Artisan pivoted slightly. Despite its lack of eyes, the crushing weight of its gaze was unmistakable. “She was intercepted and secured by your remaining operative, Vector. They are currently taking shelter in the abandoned construction site on the western edge of the city.”

The puppet raised an empty sleeve, pointing elegantly toward the shattered exit. “While the girl has sustained injuries, her life is not in peril. Therefore, there is no logical reason for you to follow us deeper into this contamination zone. Turn back.”

Those words acted as a potent sedative, instantly washing away the suffocating terror that had gripped the captain’s heart. He opened his mouth to offer his deep gratitude, but his throat seized, choked by the sheer weight of his relief. No sound would come.

Yielding to his exhaustion, he slowly lowered his arm, drew a ragged breath, and bowed deeply toward the white-and-gold swordsman and the haunting golden puppet.

Subsequently, he remained in that posture of total reverence, watching in silence as the two figures faded into the pitch-black abyss of the underground corridor.